Gravity
by reenka
Summary: When it was all over, Harry had decided to keep with tradition. He was going to get a house for the sky.


Disclaimer: JKR's universe, my bad.  
  
Author's Note: Hey, whatdya know. Genfic. Overly nostalgic genfic. For Erin.  
  
- gravity -  
  
When it was all over, Harry had decided to keep with tradition. He was going to get a house for the sky.  
  
Suddenly, his friends' presence had seemed more stifling than supportive; air was in short supply. It had been a chilly, foggy June morning, and right then and there, Harry had known he wasn't going to be around for the clean-up. His job was done, and the open sky above Hogwarts beckoned, so Harry answered its call.  
  
He'd mounted his broomstick in the blink of an eye, and had been off before anyone could do more than shout after him. After all, Harry was the fastest Seeker in a century: no one was about to catch him if he didn't want them to.  
  
Visibility was rather low for scouting, but that didn't matter; Harry was certain he'd know what he was looking for when he'd found it.  
  
--  
  
Five days later, he'd thought he was set when he remembered a vital detail; at first chance, he'd sent Ron an unmarked owl. 'Hey, don't worry about me,' it said. 'Sorry about that, mate. Meet at the Spot tomorrow at sundown?'  
  
And so Ron met him at Godric's Hollow the next night. They clasped each other's forearms briefly, and it was just that simple. Of course Ron would follow him. Something felt a bit tight in his chest, and then Ron shook his head and pulled Harry against him by his shirt.   
  
Harry's eyes were wide-open and his arms were squashed against his sides, but this was okay. Against all odds and possibly an unwritten yet vital code of some sort, Ron was-- hugging him. Rather tightly, at that.  
  
"Can't-- breathe--" Harry managed. Ron had already pushed him away roughly before he'd finished speaking, and was currently eyeing Harry speculatively.   
  
"You're bloody mental, you know that?" Of course, Harry grinned at this. "What am I going to do with you? Leaving without giving me a lift was just not on, get that?"  
  
Side by side, they began to walk away. "You'll think of something," Harry smirked. "Or maybe we can ask Hermione." It was an old, worn joke between them.  
  
"Yeah, well. It's not me you should be worried about anyway," Ron chuckled. "Hermione-- she's fit to kill, ya know. And that's if mum doesn't get to you first."  
  
"Do I start being scared now, or later?"  
  
Ron snorted. "Don't be getting all soppy on me, Harry. I'm telling it like it is, is all. So then-- where are we off to?"   
  
"Home," Harry said easily.  
  
"Better believe it."  
  
--  
  
Three years, and he still wasn't that far away from his friends; he wasn't alone most evenings. On Tuesdays, it was Ron and Hermione's turn to come over for dinner; on Mondays, Neville visited to fuss over Harry's pathetic little garden. For reasons Harry couldn't begin to grasp, Luna showed up for breakfast whenever he'd least expected her, sitting across the table in near silence and reading the Quibbler while Harry stared blearily at his plate and tried to remember where the fork was. Remus, on the other hand, had a knack for showing up exactly when he most needed him to.   
  
It was a good life; and besides, whenever he wasn't away on special assignments, he worked alongside his friends, because none of them would've had it any other way. Harry knew he had no right to complain about any of it.  
  
Only, some days he would walk out onto the porch after making his excuses and stand for a few moments, looking up. He knew Hermione was probably watching 'discreetly' from behind the thin curtain, so he walked on.   
  
Harry stepped out onto the grass, with the stars up above and the air sharp and clear even in the summer.   
  
The two of them had suggested they move in with Harry on more than one occasion since the war had ended, but he wouldn't hear of it. They had their own lives, after all, and he had this, which was his own. And if Harry kept ghosts for company, these days they stayed silent.  
  
He turned around and there she was: a slender silhouette with a familiar frizzy bushel at the top. Harry couldn't tell if she was frowning or smiling at him, but he knew that she wouldn't come after him quite yet.  
  
Backlit by the glow from his fireplace, his friends looked like they belonged there, in the safe warmth behind the window. Ron's hand rested briefly on Hermione's shoulder before she nodded and turned away.  
  
There was a sudden, distant clap of thunder, and in spite or because of it all, Harry found himself grinning. He knew he had the best friends anyone could have asked for, and for a moment, he felt like a supreme idiot for being out here alone.  
  
The corner of his mouth twitched up a bit, and he shivered pleasantly. "Wait," he whispered. "Just wait."  
  
--  
  
It was a modest enough house: he'd built it himself, with a lot of help from his friends. It was just a single-story structure with a spacious attic for unexpected guests, set on top of the highest hill for miles around. When Harry stood quite still, there were moments he could almost imagine he wouldn't need a broom to fly; there were moments when the night was its own kind of veil, though what lay behind it was an old, familiar mystery.  
  
Without even thinking, Harry walked to the little plot where he'd put the old gifts to rest: his Cloak and his Map; his broom and his mirror. There was the nondescript wooden box he'd spelled shut years ago, filled with every memory he didn't want to touch. A part of him lay silent as the earth, and sometimes Harry took comfort in that. This land was his, and when wizards had finally forgotten the name 'Harry Potter', it would go on as it always had before. Whatever he'd done or failed to do made no difference to the land or the sky; there was nothing he could do to change that, and sometimes that was enough.  
  
He'd known this hill was his as soon as he'd seen it: this was it. This was the place.   
  
He'd circled above it that first morning, waiting for the fog to dissipate as he stared at the single, sprawling oak tree at the top of a hill that should've been like any other. The branches were thick and gnarled, and looked sturdy enough to sleep on. He could stop here; he could rest.  
  
Some nights, Harry still liked to fall asleep outside, curled up beneath the thick old oak tree. Occasionally, he thought of hanging up a hammock in the porch this year. His wards were as strong as Hermione could make them; he was safe enough to go without walls in the summer.  
  
Inevitably, Luna had walked up while he was fast asleep under the tree one morning, blissfully ignoring what was generally seen as common sense. All she said was "hello, Harry," though by then Harry wasn't all that surprised.  
  
"Are you comfortable here?" she'd asked, kneeling down next to him. "The ground is hard."  
  
Harry had blown a strand of hair out of his eyes, squinting up at her. Distantly, he noticed that eyes were clear, and just as blue as the sky. "My back's a bit sore, but gimme a minute, all right? I'll wake up."  
  
"I can give you all the time you want," she'd said seriously. "I'm good at waiting for things, I think." She paused, looking off above Harry's shoulder, most likely where the sky peeked through. "Especially if some people say they're not supposed to happen."  
  
He'd blinked slowly. "I'll remember that."  
  
"So will I," she'd said.  
  
--  
  
Whenever Harry looked up into the sky, somehow the memories receded. This was the way it had felt when he was eleven, when there was nothing nearly as magical. This was the way it always felt.  
  
There was no Snitch to chase anymore, no awful battles to fight, nothing waiting for him in the darkness that he couldn't take. More and more, Harry found himself restless.  
  
The wind blew at his back, and the moon peeked from behind a cloud. So maybe there was still something he could chase.  
  
The sky around him was never the same twice, but the feeling never changed. He needed to be up there again; up high, where breathing turned difficult and little sparks of exertion danced behind his eyelids. Up where the air was fresh and thin and his heart pounded like he was winning. He was winning again.   
  
--  
  
The distant rolls of thunder had finally turned into a cool sprinkle which steadily gained force.  
  
Harry flexed his fingers, palms itching to feel smooth wood beneath them again. Looking up into the clear night once again, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He didn't need to say it, but he did anyway: it felt good.   
  
"iAccio Firebolt/i!"   
  
And he was off, because it was still that easy.  
  
--  
  
He'd always felt light as a feather as soon as he was airborne. The stars were particularly bright here around midsummer, but that lowest one near the horizon seemed especially brilliant around the end of July.  
  
There may have been something in his eye, perhaps, or perhaps that one had winked at him for just a moment.  
  
On impulse, Harry gave a shout and raced straight towards the stratosphere, where it was darkest and the rain made him nearly blind. The electricity in the air prickled along his skin, and he wasn't entirely sure whether he was chasing death or it was chasing him; then again, that was the point.  
  
He felt wetter than a drowning rat, but he was so exhilarated he couldn't begin to care. A part of Harry remembered that awful flight during third year, but he wasn't afraid anymore. If this time was his, he would make sure to go down flying.  
  
There was a flash of lightning way too close, and Harry started to laugh, nearly choking on it. No matter how hard Harry laughed, he couldn't hear himself. There wasn't enough air up here for all the laughter trapped inside him.  
  
Here-- this felt like home in a way nothing else could match; not the Burrow and certainly not Grimmauld Place, which felt mostly like a mausoleum after everything. This was as close as he got to the things he lost, but that was all right. He was free; he knew what to do.  
  
Here, falling didn't scare him.  
  
Harry opened his mouth, letting the icy water pelt his tongue: time for a dive.  
  
His hair was plastered flat to his skull and he wasn't even trying to see anymore, but he didn't need to. Harry could feel the warmth behind the lit up windows guiding him like a beacon; what was there to fear?  
  
It was time to reassure Hermione that he was still alive. And in fact, two figures came into focus, waiting for him at the last place he'd stood. At the top of his hill, their dark forms didn't waver in the pouring rain.   
  
Some days, he almost forgot what homecoming really felt like.  
  
"Honestly, Harry!" she called before he'd even landed. "Are you completely insane?!"  
  
Ron was laughing outright, and Harry was trying not to smirk. "Couldn't wait, could you?" he said.  
  
"Don't be silly," she said, all business.  
  
As soon as his feet touched the ground, Harry realized he felt pleasantly tired, and that apparently Hermione hadn't bothered to ask before casting a quick drying spell.   
  
When it was all over, Harry remained restless, but he decided that tomorrow could wait a bit longer.  
  
After all, Harry loved to fly, but he couldn't fight with gravity.  
  
-- 


End file.
